


Through the power of music, I save thee

by BlazeRiddle



Series: This just sort of happened [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mentions of warzone, PTSD, fluff?, not yet at least, that includes death and all but nothing graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-23
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-22 08:24:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2501096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlazeRiddle/pseuds/BlazeRiddle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has moved in with the odd man he's met in Bart's Hospital, and during the day, he is doing absolutely fine, great, perfect. During the night, though, the memories return, and there's not much he can do to stop the night terrors. Until he encounters a peculiar solution... in the form of a certain consulting detective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The first time

**Author's Note:**

> Another short story I've been working on. Don't know how long it will take before I finish this one, but I'll try to do it shortly. :)  
> If you have any requests or anything, tell me [here](http://blazeriddle.tumblr.com/ask) or in the comments. :)

When the phrase 'I play the violin at 4 AM' was uttered in the midst of a list peculiar things about his new -then potential - flatmate, John Watson didn't quite know what to expect. After learning about the murders and the police and the _experiments_ he'd been expecting nightly bouts of screeching agony not unlike singing cats produced from an unwilling instrument, or maybe haunting or monotonous tunes as the man hunted his thoughts. He was not expecting this.

Not in a million years was he expecting this.

In the middle of his vision of whirling sand and dry air and the smell of blood the sound of gunshots he was interrupted by something lighter, something sweeter, something lingering at the edge of his consciousness that called him, luring him through the desert, away from the gore and blood and bodies, to a darker place, a place that somehow felt safer, more secure than the brightness of the blistering sun.

He opened his eyes to the darkness of the room, oddly calm though bathed in cold sweat, and it took his brain a moment to realise the something was still there, in the form of a string of notes produced on a well-handled instrument. It was something light, something calming, something a bit like spring morning sunrays shining through a green forest. It was the first time he woke from a dream calmly since he'd gotten back to London, but now that he'd focussed on the music he was awake and felt clammy from all the sweat. Checking the clock, he concluded it was late enough in the night to be considered morning, so he slipped out of bed, into a pair of pyjama bottoms, and down the stairs.

The music stopped the moment the top stair creaked. When he reached the bottom, he saw Sherlock standing at the sink, rinsing out two mugs. It was odd, seeing the slender man in baggy pyjamas and a dressing gown, curls ruffled up messily from lying down at least for a little while, doing such simple household tasks.

"Tea?" The detective asked, already taking out a bag for himself. John nodded and yawned.

"Shower, first. " He closed the bathroom door behind him and shed his clothes, rinsing quickly under lukewarm water to wash the sweat off his body before redressing and moving back to the living area, towelling his hair.

"On the counter." Sherlock was in his chair, a mug of tea steaming on a table close by, his violin and a cleaning cloth in hand. John took a detour to fetch his own tea and sat down in his own chair.

He sipped and scraped his throat. "You... you play nice at 4 AM."

A smile played around Sherlock's lips. He placed the violin down and started cleaning the bow, stroking up and down slowly. "Did I wake you?"

"Yeah, I..." John took another sip to conceal his embarrassed pause. Sherlock could probably read the dreams off his face. "I don't mind."

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. "Tell me when you do."

John felt his eyebrows go up. It was unlike his flatmate to care about how anything he did affected others, even John.

"I will." He sipped his tea. "What were you playing?"

"Waltz of the flowers." There was a strange twinkle in the detective's eyes.

"It was... it was nice." He sipped his tea and they sat in companionable silence for a while.

 

John jerked awake due to the sound of the TV moments later. Sun was now streaming through the window, and a blanket was tucked loosely around his shoulders. Sherlock was pacing the room, fully clothed in his suit. John rubbed his eyes and blinked at the man.

"New case?" He asked. His voice made the detective turn sharply to him.

"John! _Finally._ Lestrade called. Locked-room mystery, at least a seven. Get dressed, quickly."

John jumped up, the blanket falling to the floor. "On my way." On the stairs, though, he stopped.

"You waited for me to wake up?"

"Hurry!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Waltz of the Flowers played on a single violin.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=STznOZUsmH0) if you have a better (read: longer) version for a single violin somewhere, could you maybe let me know? this was the first one I found, but I would like a longer version.


	2. a second symphony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **WARNING: Graphic descriptions of suicidal attempts ahead.**

The case was much simpler than Lestrade had thought, and than Sherlock had hoped for. The locked room where the man was killed had a secret door and a hallway behind it, and without thinking Sherlock followed it and soon encountered the killer, a young man who had somehow acquired a gun and had accidentally shot the victim with it, fleeing the scene after. It should have been an open and shut case, but the man still had the gun and fired at Sherlock in desperation. He missed by miles, and John had him secured on the floor moments later, but as the police took the man away, John knew the leftovers of the case were more complicated than usual.

It hadn't been the sound of the gun firing from such a close range, or the way it echoed. It wasn't the sight of the dark, potentially deadly device or the hole where the bullet lodged in the wall. No, if anything would induce another dust and gunshot filled, terrifying, _bloody_ nightmare, it would be the trembling fingers curling around the metal, the trembling voice as the man told them to get back, the desperation in his eyes as the finger tightened on the trigger. He'd seen that desperation before, and it brought back images he'd rather forget, images almost worse than the blood and gore, images that would stick with him for as long as he would live, probably, and that would always bring him sleepless nights. He was weary to go to sleep that night.

 

_It was a simple mission. Get in, eliminate the target, get out. He was only there in case something went wrong, running along with his gun and medical kit just behind the first men, ready for everything, gun always loaded, even if he was just a doctor._

_He entered a house, right behind his Major, but the group spread out over the estate quickly. Soon, he heard a scuffle._

_"Doc!" One called out. "Over here!"_

_He entered the room and saw a boy, not older than sixteen, cowering in a far corner, bleeding from a wound above his eye, holding a machine gun in quivering hands. He was mumbling something in Farsi, but John couldn't make out what. The doctor crouched down, trying to seem as non-threatening as possible, and murmured every comforting word he knew. The boy brought the weapon up, to his own head, his finger trembling on the trigger. Panic gleamed in the dark eyes._

With a gasp, John came back to himself. He lay in the dark for a moment, heart pounding in his throat, eyes unseeing, until something light and melodious took the fingers of the icy hand of fear clenched around his heart, warmed them, and gently uncurled the appendixes until they were gone.

Sherlock was playing the violin. It was something low, slow and soothing, travelling up from the living room like a warm hug. He was in London, in his room, in his flat, safe. Cars were passing outside, one of the streetlights was flickering, and his crazy, genius flatmate, the one who'd brought him back to life after the war, was playing a soothing melody downstairs. Listening to the music, John felt himself fall back asleep.

 _As if he knows,_ his drowsy mind wondered as it slipped off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very short chapter, as will the next. sorry for that, but I figured it would be best considering how the events are going to be playing out. Hope you guys enjoy! :)


	3. The morning after the day after

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am really bad with chapter titles.

Coming down from his room the next morning, he found Sherlock in the living room, sprawled on the couch. Not the usual artful sprawl, but a more messy, I-meant-to-stay-up-but-sleep-caught-me-anyway, kind of sprawl. He was lying on his belly, his legs and feet angled up where they wouldn't fit on the sofa, face resting on the Union Jack pillow, mouth open and curls spread messily around it. One of his hands was hanging limply from the edge of the couch, the violin resting lightly in relaxed fingers. The bow was lodged between his body and the back of the couch. John smiled, carefully taking the two objects and placing the violin back in its case, placing the bow atop of it before going to make them some tea.

As the water boiled, he realised something. Sherlock _never_ falls asleep in random places, not even when he spent nights on experiments or cases. Why now? And why-

Oh. The violin. John prepared two mugs and turned to watch his friend as the tea coloured the water. He had no idea how long his friend had been playing when he had woken up, or how long the music had continued after he'd dozed off, but it must've been a long time if he'd just fallen asleep with the violin in hand. Why, though? With everything else, Sherlock would just stop and go to sleep. Why not this time?

There was a grumble from the couch and John turned back to the mugs, removing the bags. "Tea's ready." He announced, and there was another grumble and then a flurry of movement as Sherlock got up. "You up for breakfast today?"

"Why not." The detective grumbled, moving to the kitchen. "If you're making."

"Lazy git." John smiled and the detective smirked as he took his tea. The doctor started preparing toast for two while he contemplated eggs. "Anything on today?"

"Not really." Sherlock accepted the toast and sipped the tea. "Only a experiment of sorts."

John quirked a brow. "Experiment?"

"More of a... project I've been working on."

"Project, huh?" John set his own food down as pieces fell into place in his mind. "And does this... project involve things with music in the middle of the night?" He didn't smile, but there was an amused glint in his eyes. Sherlock didn't meet his gaze.

"I wanted to see if music would help." He admitted. "I heard you, and you seemed less rested after. More cranky, too. I need you not-cranky." He glanced at the doctor. "You... don't mind?"

John shrugged. "I did sleep better, so I guess not." He tilted his head. "Anything I can do to... help with your project?"

Sherlock frowned, thinking. "It would help..." He looked away, and if John didn't know better, he'd say his friend was blushing. "Never mind. It doesn't matter."

"Come on." John bugged, "I benefit from this, too. More than you do, I think. What is it?"

Sherlock looked at him, frowned, seemed to contemplate his words.

"It would be beneficial to the experiment... project if I could monitor your sleep patterns and this would be easier if you stayed in my bed. I mean- sleeping. In my room. With me. Not in that way, just- with me _there_. Watching."

John shook his head, smiling widely, to stop his blabbering. He'd never seen the man so flustered, and he was definitely blushing, now, and avoiding to look the doctor in the eye.

"Sherlock, I'd gladly have nightmares in your bed while you watch like some creep." He smirked and the detective relaxed.

"Okay. Yes. Then I'll just-" the detective stood and walked to his room.

"Sherlock?"

The man stopped, turned. "Yes?"

"Thank you."

The man showed one of his rare smiles. "Don't be daft, John." But his voice had none of the usual condescending demeanour, "I just need you well-rested."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Experiments in the next chapter! :)


	4. Collecting data

John was nervous. He was loathe to admit it, to himself even, but the churning in his stomach was not because of the take-away Chinese or the milk Sherlock had contaminated with something-or-other (The detective had been just in time with warning him; he'd been able to rinse out his mouth. Frankly, he didn't want to know what it was this time) or the scones Mrs Hudson had brought up a few days ago. No matter how he tried to deny it, it was just plainly because of the nerves. He didn't quite know why. He was just going to sleep in a bed, probably peacefully, while his best friend was going to watch him to find a solution for his nightmares. Because Sherlock was brilliant like that. Sherlock, even though he said he didn't care for people, would try to find a way to fend off his nightmares, even though he gained nothing from it. The whole story about _needing him not-cranky_ was bollocks. Compared to the man who could throw a fit over a missing phone or cold tea, he was extremely _not cranky_.

Around eleven, he went upstairs to get into his sleeping outfit, went to the bathroom for a quick wash, and then stood awkwardly in the hall for a moment, until Sherlock looked up from the laptop, saw him, and got up, leading the way to the bedroom.

John stood at the bed for a moment, before Sherlock gestured him to get in and perched himself on the edge. "I made a plan." He said, taking a small notebook from his bedside table. First, I'd like to just... observe your sleeping pattern, so I can make a hypothesis on how to act. If that's okay with you?" Behind his calm demeanour, the detective seemed nervous, so John reached out and patted his leg.

"It's fine, Sherlock." He assured. "It's all fine, really. Just-"

"Hmm?"

"Where are you sleeping?" John tilted his head to the side a bit as Sherlock fiddled with his hands, his face turned away. When answer was not forthcoming, John smiled and moved down onto the bed until he was lying and patted the space beside him. "As far as I know, I don't move much in my sleep." He said. "Come on."

Sherlock looked over his shoulder down at him, then produced a weak smile and scooted back until he was sitting against the headboard. He clicked off all the lights, so the only light came from the city outside.

"Good night, Sherlock."

"Sleep well, John."

 

John woke somewhere in the night from a vague dream about red and green and something about chicken, only to find something warm and pillow-y resting right next to his head, so he snuggled in and fell right back asleep, even before he felt the warm hand settle in his hair.

At least he didn't have nightmares that night.

 

"You drool on my leg." It was said in a hushed tone, as if not to startle him, and spoken just as his brain came back on line. John inhaled sharply, moved his hand to the dampness at his mouth and tried to sit up. The hand in his hair stopped him, so instead, he wiped his hand past it and lay back down on Sherlock's thigh awkwardly.

"Sorry."

"Not important." The hand carded through his hair slowly, a motion without thought. "How did you sleep? Any nightmares?"

"None." John closed his eyes, enjoying the feeling. When did Sherlock get so affectionate? Was this just what he was like in the mornings? He should sleep with him more often. _No. Wrong train of thought, Watson. Don't. Back away._

"Good." He felt Sherlock straighten. "Good. I think I have a theory to what will help with your nightmares. It might require more testing, though." John frowned at this, and turned to look up at his friend.

"What did you find?"

Sherlock frowned, not looking down at him. "Well, obviously music helps to calm your nerves. It also seems -but this is just a deduction based on just this night of observation- that physical contact can prevent nightmares." The hand still carded through his short hair, and it really felt nice. Sherlock might have a point.

"Like snuggling? Okay, I can get into that." John pondered the issue for a moment. "And how do you reckon this testing will go?" He asked, though he thought he had an answer.

"Well-" Sherlock cut himself off as John kept talking. "There's this nurse at the clinic whom I've been having lunch with, lately. I bet I can get her to come over here for a sleep and a cuddle, maybe some more. You could study my sleeping patterns from another room, like you have before." The hand slowly retracted from his hair and he saw an expression pass over his friend's face, something odd, but it was gone before John could read into it.

"Very well." Sherlock focussed on a point on the opposite wall. "However, in case your expert efforts in pulling someone don't work, we need a back-up plan." There was a sneer in his voice, a hidden insult, and John resisted smiling at it.

"Thanks for the confidence, git." He rubbed his nose against the cotton pyjama bottoms, somewhere from deep within wishing the hand would come back. "What are you suggesting?"

Sherlock shrugged. "This?"

"Next time you're sleeping, though. _If_ it is needed. Plan B." John frowned up at the man. This was not the most scientific experiment he'd ever been subjected to, so he guessed he could make some demands. Sherlock clearly didn't agree, if the look he was sending down at him was anything to go on. "But then how am I supposed to know if you're having a nightmare?"

"You'll know." John smiled up at him before sitting up and stretching. "Besides, I trust your scientific methods to keep the boogie man away."

"Dreams about war and the boogie man are two different things, you daft imbecile. The boogie man-"

"For heaven's sake, don't listen to everything I say, please. I was joking." John climbed out of bed. "I need a shower, my shift starts after lunch. I guess I'll go in early to talk to that nurse. Wish me luck, yeah?"

He thought he heard a _never_ be mumbled under the detective's breath.


	5. The night (With capital T)

John sighed and shrugged on his coat. The lunch date was a complete disaster, Emily had thrown her fizzling soda in his eyes and called him a pervert before he had time to explain about the experiment, the scientific side. She'd calmed down, apologised, and politely declined. Of course, he hadn't mentioned this to Sherlock. The man didn't need any more reason to ridicule him, and besides, it would be quite obvious when he arrived home alone. So, instead of notifying his friend, he spent the afternoon preparing for the evening. He would spend the night with his flatmate.

His kind of beautiful, brilliant, very _male_ flatmate, whom he respected and who was married to his work and whom he wasn't flirting with when they first met. Or any day after, because the detective had shot him down. Instead, he had just dated women, strengthening the illusion of _straight_ when all he'd ever said was _not gay_. That pale skin and bright eyes and dark curls and stunning intellect did something to him, even if he never acted on it, not even in private, was a secret intended for him only. Now, when something _did_ happen, he could always blame it on the closeness. Friction, action and response. Surely a scientific mind like Sherlock would get that.

He entered Baker Street and made his way up the stairs, his nerves overpowered by the churning of his stomach and the delicious smell of Italian. Entering the kitchen, he was surprised to find Sherlock at the stove.

"You cook?" He asked, baffled. Sherlock scoffed at him.

"Applied science." He said, stirring a red sauce. "More simple than what I usually experiment with."

"Less lethal, too, I hope." John noted, and then he realised something. "Were you cooking dinner for me and my date or did you know?"

Sherlock gave him a look. "The last time you managed to get off in other company than your left hand was right after you met with that... Leah? And you broke it off with her because she was apparently a 'crazy bitch'." He stirred the pasta through the sauce and sniffed it before adding a bit of pepper. John chuckled at the memory.

"You remembered? I figured you would delete that. Or, you know, was too deep in your mind palace to actually listen. Or hear me."

"Why wouldn't I listen?" Sherlock stretched to get two plates and dumped the pasta on them. "I listen to everything, notice everything. It's why I'm a detective."

"Right. Yeah. That... quite obvious. Sorry." John accepted the food and sat down at the table. "I guess Afghanistan put me more out of practice than I thought." He tasted the dinner and widened his eyes in surprise. "This is really good. You should do this more often."

"It's a one-time thing." Sherlock growled. "At least not a regularly recurring event, in case you were hoping." He started eating slowly, seeming to savour every bite.

"Just saying, it wouldn't hurt you to cook once in a while."

"Maybe it would. I never tried." Sherlock smirked. "I made dinner, you find some sort of entertainment for tonight."

John nearly choked on his food at the image his mind provided, but managed to conceal it with a cough. Sherlock quirked a brow. "I didn't know James Bond would affect you that much."

John smirked and used the comment to change the subject. "No Bond tonight." He said, remembering the TV guide he saw in the paper that morning. "Lord of the Rings is on, starts at seven I think. Do you know it?"

Sherlock hummed. "My father read me the books when I was younger." He took a last bite of his dinner and pushed his plate aside. "I thought those movies were extremely lengthy."

"They are." John cleared his plate and took the two to the sink. "Better get comfortable." Sherlock stood and sauntered to his bedroom. By the time John had finished drying the dishes he re-emerged wearing his usual combination of pyjamas and a dressing gown and flopped down on the sofa. John smiled at his friend and turned the TV on before contemplating where to sit down. The TV was angled towards the sofa, so he'd have to figure something out to kick his friend off of it.

"Lift your arse, I wanna sit." Sherlock lifted his feet, but John sniffed and pulled a face. "I'm not going to sit with your smelly feet. It's bad enough that I do your laundry." Sherlock shrugged and placed his feet back down, lifting his head instead. John rolled his eyes at the lazy git and sat down, letting Sherlock rest his head on his thigh. Turnabout is fair play, he reasoned.

 

Watching films with Sherlock was an experience all on its own. From the moment Bilbo came into view the detective started to mutter a running commentary on the inconsistencies and oddities of the film, and instead of being annoying, John found it to be really amusing. He spent most of the film giggling, trying not to dislocate the head in his lap, and generally genuinely having a good time. When the credits rolled, both of them were suppressing yawns, so Sherlock got off the sofa in a fluid movement and held out his hand.   
"Care to join me for an experiment, doctor?" He asked, a sort-of exited glint in his eyes. John stood, too, and nodded. "Just let me get ready." He moved up to his room and changed into his sleeping attire, an old t-shirt and boxers, and moved back down. Sherlock was already in bed, sitting up against the headboard. He tapped the space next to him as John entered and the doctor crawled under the blankets.

"You _are_ going to sleep tonight aren't you?" He asked sleepily. As an answer, Sherlock moved down and tentatively put his arms around him. _For science_ , John told himself as he snuggled closer and felt the arms tighten around him. He was asleep within minutes.


	6. A vivid dream (or a dreamy reality)

_The street was dusty and dirty, and after only an hour of hiking through the barren land he had dust everywhere, from his hair to his toes to his lungs and throat. Patrolling was most certainly not his favourite part of the job._

_There was an explosion, his transmitter crackled and a tinny voice sounded through it. "Watson, a land mine on 4-20. Three men, one high priority. Get over there to see what you can do." John was already moving, already saw the charred remains of the jeep, already smelled the blood. Coming closer, he saw the three men, two obviously dead, one still moving. He moved to the man and pulled his med kit to the ready._

_"Major..." His friend opened his eyes, two bright blue-green eyes looking up at him. They didn't fit in the face. "Major, talk to me."_

_"John." The rumbling baritone answered. "John, everything is all right. You're all right, just look around you. We're here, you and I, on... a beautiful tropical island, with palm trees and coconuts." John looked around; the dust was gone, the sand now that of a beautiful white beach, the sea bright and blue. "You're safe, John, you're perfectly safe, because you're a strong person and there are people who care about you." There was a small pause, then the voice was_ right there, _in his ear, a breath against his neck. "I love you, John Watson."_

John slept mostly peacefully through the night.

 

John blinked awake and found his face smashed against his friend's chest, Sherlock's arms around him protectively, one hand resting in his hair. The huffs of the man's gentle breaths tickled on the top of his head. It was a marvel, looking up at the relaxed face as slowly the breaths changed, the heart rate under his ear picked up a bit, and then the brow furrowed right before the eyes opened and two big, sleepy eyes looked down at him.

 _Those eyes._ So that's why they hadn't fit with the face. He smiled up at those eyes, as they blinked in mild surprise, as if the detective couldn't believe John was still there.

"Morning." The doctor smiled up at the man and snuggled a bit closer, feeling the arms tightening around him. Sherlock hummed.

"Morning." John could feel the rumble from the man's voice against his face. "How did you sleep?"

"Okay, I guess." John managed to stretch his legs without moving his upper body. "Had a strange dream." He snaked his hands around the detective, hugging him close. He had a feeling Sherlock would try to run.

"A nightmare?"

"I... don't think so. It definitely started out as one, though." He felt Sherlock tense next to him, even if it was only slightly.

"Explain?" He requested, his nose rubbing gently through John's hair. _Savouring_ , John realised. He tightened his arms around the detective.

"I was in the desert. There had been a car bomb, and Sholto was there. Did I tell you about Sholto?" He felt Sherlock nod and continued. "He was the only survivor. He... Looked up at me, and there was a voice, telling me I was not in the desert, that I was on a beautiful island, and then I was and then..." He paused to meet Sherlock's eyes. "I think Sholto told me he loved me." Sherlock most certainly tensed now, and tried to pull away, but John held him in place until he stopped struggling. Looking up, John noted that his friend seemed distressed, his heart beating faster than before and body rigid, a glint in the blue-green eyes that wasn't all quite calm. "It doesn't matter." John assured. "It was only a dream, right?" He smiled up and received a weak smile back. "Now, if it happened more often, I'd start to doubt it, but..." He was giving the man an out, he realised, but he wasn't even sure if what he thought had happened had actually happened. He needed to be sure himself before he leaped into anything. He stretched, moving slightly away from the other man before rolling to his back. He still felt the body warmth at his shoulder.

"This was lovely, Sherlock, we should do it again." He turned his head to look at the man and found him gone, gaze distant and face blank, processing. It was a look he'd seen often, but never when that head was resting on a pillow, with the curls messily framing the face. Knowing the detective wouldn't notice, he pressed a kiss to the man's forehead and slipped out of bed to make himself breakfast.

 

"You're bi." John didn't look up at the sudden question, simply took another plate down and turned back to the scrambled eggs he was producing.

"Indeed. Get the toast?" He moved just a bit to the side so Sherlock could reach the toaster and the detective popped in the bread.

"And you and Sholto...?"

"Nope." John plated the eggs and a bit of left-over sauce and handed one to Sherlock. "Never."

"But you wanted it, though?" Sherlock asked, sitting down at the table. "What other reason would you have to dream it? Your subconscious is probably trying to tell you something."

John chuckled and took the bread out of the toaster to distribute it between the two. "A dream reader, now, too, are you? Doesn't that fall into the same category as astrology?" He sat down too, to look at his friend with an amused glint in his eyes as Sherlock tried to figure everything out.

"There is a difference." He commented offhandedly, his brain obviously otherwise occupied. "Dreams can tell much about what occupies a mind. It can tell lots abou- It wasn't Sholto." His eyes widened at the revelation. John quirked an eyebrow and dragged a piece of toast through the sauce.

"You said you heard a voice but you didn't say it was Sholto, so it wasn't, was it? It was-" Sherlock suddenly looked down at his plate, carefully covering his toast with the egg mixture. "You're probably right, dreams tell nothing about real life." The words were spoken with the man's full intelligence behind them, and John frowned at his eggs. The detective was _definitely_ hiding something. Could it be...?

_John, uhm... I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work and while I am flattered by your interest I'm-_

John shouldn't get his hopes up.

"We should do it again, tonight." Sherlock offered. "You seem to be doing better already. Perhaps no more women though, they wouldn't know what to do."

John smiled. "Good point." He checked his watch. "I have another shift at noon, I'm probably home late. Flu shots and all, it attracts all the hypochondriacs, too."

Sherlock hummed. "Boring." He poked at his food.

"I'll give you a running commentary." John promised, smirking. "Anything on today?"

"A thing with those toes that have been bugging you." Sherlock looked up and smiled. "I'll clean out the fridge, too. There are a few things I no longer need."

"That would be great." John pulled a face. "Something in there is smelling awful."

"Ah, that would be the cow stomachs. I wanted to know if- you know, never mind. What is it you always say? _Not over breakfast_."

"I've said it _once_."

"You've implied it plenty of times." Sherlock smirked. "You should shower. The hypochondriacs will not appreciate it if you smell like yesterday's sweat."

John stood and placed the two plates in the sink. "Yeah, that might be a good idea." He moved to the bathroom, humming under his breath.


	7. An elaborate plan (Or something close enough to work)

The plan was ridiculous. Of course, one could expect it to be, as John's mind had made it up during sessions of sick children and mothers who thought their children were going to be sick and old women with arthritis. John was fairly certain it would work, though, as his flatmate was just as ridiculous. It would be tricky, though, tricking Sherlock Holmes.

He took care of some paperwork when the flow of patients had subsided and decided to go home around ten o'clock, exhausted from his shift. As he entered, Sherlock, seated at the dinner table peering through his microscope, looked up and let his eyes wander over the doctor's frame.

"Straight to bed, then?" He asked, a slight frown creasing his brows. John sighed.

"Tea first." He yawned and hung his coat before moving to the water boiler. "Do you mind? It's early."

Sherlock shrugged and went back to his slide. "I don't need range of motion of my body to occupy my mind." He said. "I won't be bored. I have things to catalogue."

"All right." John yawned again. "Tea?"

Sherlock hummed. "No, thanks. 'M gonna finish this."

"Very well." John took his own tea and settled in Sherlock's chair, watching the man while he sipped the liquid. The detective didn't even glance at him once, but when John took the last sip he cleaned away his equipment and moved to his bedroom to change. John followed his example before going to Sherlock's bedroom, too. He found the man, already snuggled in under the covers, lighted by a single bedside light. John smiled and got in, allowing the detective to pull him into an easy embrace.

"Go to sleep, John." Sherlock whispered to the top of his head. "I'll be right here."

John closed his eyes. It felt a bit silly, lying here with this man and letting his muscles relax, evening out his breath and just being there. He'd never before really tried to fool the man, as it would be no use, but this... Sherlock tightened his arms around him, stroking his back, and John realised it was working. He counted to three hundred, focussing on the feeling of the hand stroking his back, the one resting below his neck to prevent falling asleep, and then tensed. He furrowed his brow just slightly, tensed his back muscles, and let out a tiny whimper. Sherlock moved, too, pulling him even closer and moving his hand up to the doctor's hair, stroking his scalp and tracing soothing figures on his back. His mouth was there, too, pressing a gentle kiss to his hair, his temple, before breathing a string of soothing words in his ear.

"Shh, John, you're safe, John, you're all right. You're... in the middle of regent's park, don't you see? Hear the birds sing around you, John, you're safe, you're in London, and the sun is shining. Just strolling through the park, and I'm right there with you." Sherlock pressed a kiss to the shell of his ear. "I love you. Shh, sleep peacefu-" The man's voice stilled in his throat as the doctor's eyes opened and Sherlock stared down at them in shock before scrambling to get away.

John had been prepared. He had his arms around the man and held on firmly as Sherlock struggled and finally relaxed, refusing to meet his eye, his own blue-green ones shining with... something. "John, I-"

"You love me." John grabbed the detective's chin and forced the man to look down into his eyes. Yes, those were definitely _tears_ gleaming in those marvellous eyes. "Sherlock, it's okay. It's _fine_." John smiled up, but received a watery frown back. He pulled the man close again, so he could rest his head against his chest and hear the steady thumping of his heart. "Everything's fine." Sherlock's hands tentatively came back around the doctor's back, and John tightened his grip on the man, reassuring.

"How can it be?" Sherlock asked, voice wavering and full of wonder. "You.. and I... how? I'm _me,_ I insult and I make messes and- how?"

John smiled again and pulled back a little so he could look at the man's face. "Because of all that. You're _you_ and you're amazing, and- remember that case, two weeks ago? That five with the domestic assault victim? Remember what you asked me?"

Sherlock nodded, seemingly holding his breath as his mind made the connections. "How could she stay with him..."

"And I told you, that even though that guy got drunk and beat her up, it wasn't all he did, it wasn't what she saw when she looked at him. She saw a nice, outgoing, caring person who enjoyed a party- the person she fell in love with." His voice was soft as he recited his words and he paused before continuing. "You're not the mess in the kitchen, or the body parts in the fridge. That's a part of you, you simply are a scientist, but you're _so much more_." John swallowed, fighting back his own tears at the sudden confessions. "You're the man who pulled me out of a shitty bedsit and back to life, the man who brought colour back into my world, the man who makes me giggle, who buys take-out after a long day, who plays the violin to stave off my nightmares, who apologises for jealously texting a potential girlfriend of mine by making marvellous spaghetti." John smiled at the slightly guilty frown. "You're _you_ , Sherlock, and every single bit of that is brilliant, amazing, mad. And most of all, you're the one that made me realise that no, me being bi wasn't just a thing to get through lonely army days." He stretched and pressed a light kiss on the man's nose, and nearly heard the _click_ in his brain as everything slotted together.

"You-?" Sherlock blinked in confusion.

"Yes."

"Me?" He frowned.

"Yes." John smiled brightly.

Sherlock suddenly moved forward, pressing his face against the man's neck and sniffing, kissing, licking. John giggled and let it happen until the detective had him cuddled close, embracing him and holding on to him like he was the man's most treasured teddy.

"Go to sleep, now, John." He said, smile evident in his voice. "I love you."

John smiled and rubbed his nose over the cotton against his cheek.

"Love you, too."

Both of them slept peacefully that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's end it here, shall we? :)  
> Thanks a lot to Vixis, for commenting on this story and giving me the motivation to finish it. :)  
> Thanks to all of you who's read this and made it to the end. You all motivate me to keep doing this.  
> Don't forget that I love you all, and that if you have a draft or a request or something, you can message me here [on my Tumblr](http://blazeriddle.tumblr.com/ask).

**Author's Note:**

> [Waltz of the Flowers played on a single violin.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=STznOZUsmH0) if you have a better (read: longer) version for a single violin somewhere, could you maybe let me know? this was the first one I found, but I would like a longer version.


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